Chained in the Land of the Free
by i-swear-we-were-sufinite
Summary: Alfred's father, Arthur, never approves of anything he does. He sets his expectations impossibly high, and blames his son's inability to reach them as Alfred's fault. Anyone would want to run away . . . AU. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: This is just a random idea I'm trying out. If you like it, well, cool! I do not own Hetalia.)**

Alfred sighed as he turned onto his block. He hadn't even noticed how dark it was until now. No moon lit the streets, but stars shone brightly in the sky. The autumn air was cool and pleasant; it ruffled his chestnut hair as he walked. Nervously, his eyes glanced at his watch repeatedly. _10:02. On a school night. Man, if he doesn't kill me, it'd be a miracle. _With an expanding pit of dread in his chest, he saw that his house lights were on and the blinds were open . . . but another minute lingering out in the darkness would mean another minute closer to his doom. _Alfred, you aren't a kid anymore. You can defend yourself against him. You're already taller than him, anyways. _He shrugged, opening the door to the one-story, rectangular blue house, the one with the square hedges and the dying grass. Maybe if he slipped inside quietly, nobody would notice his absence—

"Where the hell were you, Alfred Jones? You've nerve, don't you, coming back thirty minutes past curfew! You promised to be back by nine thirty, you promise me every day, and you always manage to break your word!" Alfred's father scolded him angrily. It usually scared him senseless, but now that he towered over him, the fear had diminished a little. He tried to focus on his father's abnormally large eyebrows as he informed Alfred, as he did every night, that he had brought shame on his family and the man who brought him in as a child.

Anyone with eyes could see that Arthur Kirkland wasn't Alfred's father. Arthur's hair was blonde and spiky; he had bright green eyes and the aforementioned eyebrows. Alfred, on the other hand, was stuck with one strand of hair that never stayed flat and bespectacled blue eyes. Because Alfred had never known his biological parents, Arthur was his family. He could've asked for better, but one can't pick and choose their parents.

"Are you even listening?" It was obvious that Alfred had spaced out; he turned his gaze towards his father, trying to cover his lack of attention.

"Out past curfew, shame on family, got it." He tried to walk away, but Arthur grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him in his tracks. If he felt rebellious, he could easily pull him away . . . but there was no messing with Arthur when he was angry.

"Alfred. F. Jones. I am sick and tired of your shit. Every day, you put me through the same stupidity, and I've about had enough!" Alfred wanted to back away a little, feeling the "enraged Arthur" emerging.

"I really am sorry, I'll try to be on time—"

"This isn't just about your damn curfew, Alfred. Did you know that you are failing chemistry? Of course, you never were smart, but I'm under the impression that you don't even try! _You have seventeen missing assignments, Alfred_!" Any sense of bravery shattered like a pane of glass. So he'd found out. He had kept it a secret for two weeks, trying to raise his grade on his own . . . if he told Arthur, he'd be dead. Alfred never dreamed he'd figure it out.

"I am?" he tried to play dumb, but considering the fact that he had just been indirectly called an idiot.

"Of course you are, you git! And before you ask, your teacher e-mailed me about your situation. Where the hell did those assignments even _go_?" All of them were filled to the brim with wrong answers. He didn't have the heart to turn them in, not while everyone around him found chemistry to be the easiest course they'd ever taken. He couldn't be the class idiot, not again . . .

Since third grade, nobody thought Alfred was particularly smart. He fell behind in math, and after asking for help became too embarrassing, he simply accepted that he was a failure, and nobody really noticed. When he reached middle school, however, people began to compare scores. They began to look at Alfred's papers. They started sneering whenever he shouted the wrong answer with confidence. And Arthur, as always, was never any help.

"Ask the teacher," he'd said. "Who cares if other students find out you need help? I pay taxes for you to fucking learn, not waste time on frivolous things like reputation . . ." Maybe if people would stop being assholes for a minute, he wouldn't have to "fret over his popularity". Maybe if Arthur would help him, like most dads did, he wouldn't be failing. It was pretty clear that Arthur had no time for Alfred. Sometimes, Alfred didn't even know if he cared about him.

"I have them all, I'll turn them in, okay? God, just let me sleep!" He tried to turn away again, but he was forced to meet Arthur's stern gaze.

"You will raise your grade in the next two weeks," he demanded. "Or you're dropping out of sports." Alfred's heart sunk. He played offense on the school soccer team; the game was his life, the only thing that made going to school worthwhile. If that was taken away from him, he may as well run away from home.

"That's not fair—"

"It's completely fair. Do you think it's fair to make me suffer through your failure? I just want my son to succeed—"

"I'm only good at soccer and stuffing my face, you said so yourself." Arthur looked appalled. Alfred felt his hands seize his arms, those green eyes burning into his head.

"You do not back-talk to me, Alfred! You think you know everything, don't you? 'Oh, look at me, I'm a stupid teenage boy and the world revolves around me! I don't need to listen to the man who's cared for me since I was five'! You are full of shit!" Arthur sighed; Alfred's heart pounded. He hated these moments, where Arthur blamed him for his failure. It wasn't his fault! It was Arthur who set the unrealistic expectations . . . not everyone can be a genius . . . those eyes burned into him, pained him, filled him with guilt and anger and tears. "I don't care if you have to beg and plead; raise your goddamn chemistry grade!" He released his son, who stumbled away from him. Alfred's bedroom was down the hall, waiting for him to collapse on the clothes-covered bed. He threw off his brown bomber jacket and climbed into bed, still in a t-shirt and jeans. The lights were off, and his mind wanted the day to end. But once a new one began, he had new expectations to fill. _Raise the grade. _

"Do I look like I can raise it?" he whisper-shouted to himself. "School is BS. When the hell am I going to use unit conversions? Do I look like a fucking scientist?" He removed his glasses and closed his eyes. "Why does my life suck?" he whispered to the ceiling. "I hate you, Dad."


	2. Chapter 2

School the next day was terrible. Chemistry was his first period, which meant fighting sleep and trying to comprehend useless information at the same time. He had to try harder than usual, as his father's threat hung above his head. Comparing his worksheet to the answers on the board, he knew that he was dead meat. Everything was wrong. He tried to figure out what he did wrong by staring at Katya Braginskaya's paper, but she protected her answers fiercely. _If the answers are on the board, then why the hell are you blocking them? I just want to see your work, damn it! _She couldn't have gotten everything wrong, because chemistry was her best subject. An idea formed in his head. Could he ask Katya to tutor him? He stared at the short-haired blonde, trying to see potential. She was very smart, but Alfred barely knew her. Asking her to tutor him would be just plain creepy.

He rested his head on his desk, exhausted. The teacher began to start the lesson, but it wasn't like he could understand it in the first place. His mind drifted off to sleep, away from the world of chemistry . . .

_Get up, you git! _Arthur's voice echoed in his sleeping mind. _How hard is it to even try to understand? _It's not hard to try, but Arthur knows it's not enough. _A is for Alfred, _he used to tell him, before he stopped trying to encourage him and began yelling all the time. He forced himself awake and tuned into some nonsense about a guy named Boyle's law. _Who wastes his time thinking of crap like this? _He asked that question every day, yet the world continued to conspire against him by creating a new formula or principle for him to cram into his useless mind.

When the bell rang, he was relieved. He was sick and tired of the stupid practice problems they worked on, none of which Alfred could answer properly. He walked through the crowd and to his locker. Luckily, he was competent enough to know how to open it. He put away his chemistry materials and prepared for English and Geometry, his next two classes. Studying a language he already knew how to speak never made sense to Alfred, but at least he was passing the class with a solid C plus.

By lunch, Alfred had encountered every reason he despised school—chemistry class in general, smart kids who knew the answer to every question, while he was still trying to figure out what to do with the numbers, low self-esteem pertaining directly to test scores, and teachers discussing how important a role education played in their lives.

"Who gives a shit?" he asked aloud. Arthur did, but he didn't care. He was worse than all of the teachers here.

He made his way through the lunch line and met his friends at their usual table. His best friend, Matthew, was already twirling spaghetti with his fork. Everyone else was probably still in line.

"Hey, Matt." Matthew waved as Alfred sat down and opened his can of weird, school-brand, supposedly healthy carbonated drink. Dumb health laws prevented the school from serving Coke and stuff, so they were stuck with some gross sparkling juice. Alfred drank it every day anyways, though it tasted like piss.

"Hi, Alfred. What's up?" Alfred shrugged, shoving a meatball into his mouth.

"I hate school, I hate my dad, and I hate this goddamn soda imposter." He took a sip of it anyways. The pineapple-mango flavor was definitely the worst.

"Sounds like everything's normal." Just then, their friend Gilbert sat down loudly, along with his girlfriend Elizaveta. Most of the time, Alfred and Matthew wondered if she even _liked_ him, as she spent most of her time threatening him. Somehow, she sat with them anyways, though she probably would be enjoying herself a lot more with her civilized, intelligent, nice friends.

"I fucking hate Roderich Edelstein," he began, offering no introduction. "Today, he said I wasn't 'musically inclined' enough for band class. I play the _triangle_! I don't need to be 'musically inclined', because I was shoved into that class, having not signed up for anything else, and my dumb counselor won't let me quit! I play for about two measures per song, and all I have to do is bang the goddamn triangle! I don't need 'special talent' or 'Austrian protiginess' to play an instrument _that does nothing but make a goddamn dinging noise_!" He stopped his ranting for about two seconds to begin eating. "He thinks he's the greatest thing on the goddamn planet, you know? 'Look at me, I'm _first chair_'. Big whoop! It's a stupid chair; all you do is sit! That snobbish pansy is such a—"

"Well, he's more talented than you, Gilbert. Personally, his violin-playing beats your _defense_ ability any day. Nobody cares about defense. Or soccer," Elizaveta insisted.

"EVERYONE CARES ABOUT SOCCER!" the three boys yelled, drawing the attention of a couple students. Alfred cared about soccer more than anything. It was the only thing he had to prove he wasn't a waste of space.

"Don't you dare defend other boys, Elizaveta! Especially not assholes like—"

"Oh please, you're _way_ more of an asshole than—"

"Oh, so you're taking _Roddy's_ side? WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING ASK HIM TO MARRY YOU, THEN?" Their arguments were heated and frustrating, but Alfred found them effective to clear his mind.

"This, my friend, is what a bad marriage looks like," Matthew whispered. Alfred nodded. Matthew's parents divorced, which led him to move to Connecticut from Vancouver, but he often joked about it. Alfred understood very well that joking about life was a lot easier than living it.

"Why the hell are they even still together? Does she even see _anything_ in him?"

"RODERICH EDELSTEIN IS A PANSY CUNT!"

"YOU ARE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE I'VE EVER MET!"

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!"

"TAKE THAT BACK? YOU SHOULD JUST STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE!"

"I THINK YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE!"

"YOU'VE RUN OUT OF GOOD COMEBACKS!"

"Hey, Matt, are there any good movies playing this weekend?"

Alfred had as much of a chance of seeing a movie with Matt as he did of hooking up Gilbert with Roderich Edelstein. When the end of the day came, he had three worksheets due for chemistry that he had no idea how to do. Sighing in frustration, he headed to the school library, though the last thing he wanted to do was stay at school. But Arthur had threatened to drop him out of soccer, and when Arthur made a threat, it was serious. He walked into the library, chose the most secluded table he could find, and opened his chemistry binder.

The numbers melted together in his brain. Helplessness overcame him; he reread the directions over and over again, but he hadn't the faintest idea what to do. Worst of all, the teacher didn't provide an answer key, so he couldn't even check. Usually, he would make up answers, but being as his grade was so abysmal, and as Arthur demanded that he raise his grade, he actually had to _try_ this time.

"Is anyone sitting here?" Alfred looked up to find a tall, smiling boy with blonde hair, purple eyes, and the weirdest voice he's ever heard. He sounded high, and his voice was heavily accented. _Why the hell is everyone in this town a foreigner? _It made him feel out of place as an American-born citizen, though he lived in his native country.

The last thing Alfred wanted was for this Russian kid to see how dumb he was, but only a jerk turned people away from seats at the library. "Sure, go ahead," he replied, his voice flat. _He's so massive . . . he's probably killed twenty people with a body like that._ He tried to focus on his chemistry work, but it was as if he was staring at a brick wall. Nothing particularly good would come out of it.

"Isn't chemistry the most pointless subject?" the boy commented, staring at Alfred's work. Alfred glared at him, annoyed for invading his privacy. At least he hadn't written any dumb answers. "Let me see . . . oh, gas laws. We did these last semester—"

"Give me my damn paper back!" he snatched it from the boy, who had seized it without Alfred's permission. "It's none of your business what I'm working on!"

"But you clearly don't know what you're doing! You're just staring at it angrily. Maybe if you tried—"

"I don't need complete strangers to tell me I'm stupid!" Alfred yelled. The librarian hushed him furiously as the entire library stared. "The fuck are you all looking at?"

"Sir, please refrain from shouting and/or using profanities in the library," the librarian scolded. Alfred mumbled a heartless apology and returned to his paper as she walked away.

"You'd be best to start by recognizing what formula to use. What does the problem give you?" Alfred read the directions to the first problem.

"22.3—"

"Not the numbers, things like pressure and temperature and stuff!" he stared again.

"Uh . . . pressure . . . and volume."

"And what formula uses pressure and volume?" The boy looked at him expectantly. Alfred glared in return.

"The hell should I know?"

"Boyle's law. Initial pressure times initial volume equals final pressure times final volume . . ." he grumbled as he followed the verbal instructions, feeling like the idiot he was. This kid probably thought he was the dumbest person alive. Nevertheless, with his help, he actually found that his answer could make sense.

The boy smiled at him. "It's not that hard, is it?"

"It's one problem. How the hell do I do the rest?"

"I'll show you, just follow my instructions . . ."

With the aid of the towering teenager, Alfred managed to complete an assignment that would have taken three hours alone only forty-five minutes. Best of all, the material started to make a little sense after a while. Now grinning, he put away his chemistry binder and slung his backpack over his shoulders.

"You are a savior, dude. I would've been dead if I didn't do this right." The taller boy shrugged.

"You are welcome. I'm here every day, from three-thirty to five. If you need help, just come, yes?" He smiled again, handing Alfred a square of line paper with a name scrawled on it, first in English, then in Russian: Ivan Braginski. A cell phone number was written below it, as well as the aforementioned library hours. Alfred nodded in appreciation, pocketing the slip of paper.

"Cool. My name's Alfred F. Jones, midfielder on the school soccer team. Yes, I'm that cool."

"I do not know what that is," he replied. "But it can't be anything too important, because I've never heard of it." Alfred became suddenly angry.

"What the fuck did you just say about soccer?" he asked. Ivan laughed softly; clearly, he didn't actually care for Alfred—he was probably tutoring him out of boredom. Maybe Ivan will use his stupidity against him, now that he was aware of how brain-dead he was. "Forget it—I'm going home, before my dad kills me."

"Oh? Okay then, I will see you tomorrow, Alfred F. Jones. What does the F stand for, anyways?"

"Failure," he replied, storming off before the librarians could yell at him again for swearing and talking at an audible tone. Any good feelings about this session evaporated. _Who the hell does he think he his, acting all nice just to . . . just to act like Arthur?_ He didn't want to go home, to where he would just be ridiculed by his own father, but it was better than arriving home late, and listening to his lectures. And even though Ivan turned out to be a huge jerk, at least he got his homework done. Maybe he could just seclude himself in his bedroom and play video games. The plan didn't seem too bad, and he could always do his other homework at two in the morning. He smiled to himself, knowing that he couldn't possibly be scolded when he had taken a step towards success.

Maybe things could start to look up . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur paced around the family room, with the cooking channel on the TV in the background. He had wanted to start cooking healthy dinners for his son, who seemed to live off of fast food, but Alfred didn't care for his cooking, which he was supposedly abysmal at. He turned to the man on TV, who showed him how to properly marinate a steak. Arthur's body sank five inches as he sat on their old, hideously purple couch. That was another thing he could start to do, decorate their one-story house in a way that attracted the neighbors. Purple couches, hole-ridden armchairs, and stained coffee tables made him look like he had no eye for design whatsoever. He made a mental note to remember to go through with his plans for once, but in the back of his head, he knew he'd push it off, like always.

Eventually, the celebrity chef presented his juicy steak to a table of happy, energetic children. They chattered enthusiastically; a few of them ran up to the man and hugged his legs, being unable to reach any other part of him. Arthur felt a pang of nostalgia. It's been a while since Alfred had that much energy . . . he used to come home from school every day, with a new picture for the refrigerator or a new song he learned. They used to eat dinner together in front of the TV, where they watched old cartoons and laughed. Alfred's laughter was boisterous and carefree, but Arthur had forgotten exactly what it sounded like. He never seemed to laugh anymore.

What he missed most of all was climbing into bed with Alfred to read stories with him. Most of them were improvised, with messages encouraging him to sleep soundly, as the ghosts Alfred insisted haunted his closet were harmless. It was the nights he held his little boy closely in his arms and kissed him on the forehead that pained him.

On Tuesdays, Alfred's curfew was seven o'clock, as he had no soccer practice and really had no other need to be out. He never knew what exactly he did on his free nights, but he always managed to return far later than he was supposed to. It was as if the boy felt the need to give him a heart attack every night. Where was he, anyways?

Arthur had no idea how his son grew so distant from him. If he had to guess, he'd say it happened some time around middle school. They fought over his homework every night, even when Arthur was just trying to help him. Perhaps with puberty came rebellion, and defiance, and irrational anger . . . all the things that made teenagers evil. When he was in first grade, Alfred was such a bright little boy. Now, he was failing chemistry, barely scraping a D plus in math, and lashing out at him every chance he got. Did such poor results render Arthur a bad father? He had done nothing to hinder Alfred's upbringing. He had shown him plenty of love as a kid. He had done the same things his neighbors did raising their children, and they were all such sweet, bright young people. All he ever wanted was to give a poor, orphaned boy a chance in life. Somehow, things have changed so severely, there was no hope for salvaging their relationship.

"I'm home," Alfred called, walking through the doorway. He kicked off his shoes and started to head towards his bedroom.

"Alfred, congratulations. You managed to arrive home on time. I guess even you can get it right." Words tended to slip out of Arthur's mouth, whether he meant them or not. Most people around him just learned to ignore it, and as Alfred had lived with him pretty much his whole life, he figured his words had no effect on him.

"I'm not that dumb," he insisted, not even looking Arthur in the eye. "I'm going to my room."

"Do your chemistry homework—"

"_I did it, okay?_" He snapped suddenly. "It's done! That's why I was gone; I went to the library! Got a problem with that?"

"You should've done math, too! You think you can get away with doing one subject's worth of homework? I want to _see_ you finish it, too! Bring your supplies and do it in the family room!" Alfred stared at him, clearly appalled. _What is with that stupid look? I just want you to do well; I can't force you to care, but I can watch you succeed! _"Well?"

"You are so fucking controlling!"

"Maybe if you were capable of doing your schoolwork, I wouldn't be so hard on you!" Alfred crossed his arms and frowned.

"You think I don't do it because I'm lazy? Maybe the reason you have to shout at me like a drill officer is because I'm fucking _stupid_!"

"You can be smarter if you tried! And stop cussing in every sentence!"

"Trying in school won't make me any smarter! Trying in school will just tell me that I can memorize well enough to go to college. School teaches you _nothing_!"

"That's not true!"

"Does it teach you how to balance a checkbook, or pay taxes, or budget, or to detect lies and deceptive statements in political debates? No! What we are learning isn't useful, and we don't even get to choose what subjects we want to take because of stupid requirements! I don't need to know chemistry! School is bullshit! When will everyone realize that my intelligence isn't a letter? My ability to get into college is just a _number_, a number that is 2.64, and a number that won't get me anywhere in life, because of the fucked-up system! I don't know how to buy a house, or raise a child, or do well at job interviews, but at least I know the _fucking Pythagorean Theorem_!" Alfred seemed out of breath. His blue eyes appeared striking, wild. With a frustrated groan, he stormed off to his room and slammed the door. Clearly, he had no intention of completing his math homework. Infuriated, Arthur shut off the TV and banged on his bedroom door. "_Go away_!"

"Alfred F. Jones, you do not challenge the system! Feeling rebellious, are we? Are you 'too cool for school'?"

"I am too cool for bullshit, yes."

"Education is important!"

"In elementary school!"

"You are not a philosopher or a social reformer, Alfred! Do your goddamn homework, you little shit!"

"I do what I want, bastard!"

"I give up. Don't come crying to me when you have to repeat chemistry over the summer!" this seemed to trigger something. The shouting halted abruptly; Arthur's face was hot from shouting. He inhaled deeply as he stepped away from the door. Perhaps he should leave Alfred alone, before the rift between them grew larger. He lay on the couch, thinking of Alfred, of everything he could've been. Was he really wasted potential? He did nothing but play video games and eat. There was soccer, but athletes who failed to maintain a high GPA were thought of as failures with nothing else to do but play sports. Arthur sighed, trying to bring back memories of his young, enthusiastic boy, who brought home papers stamped with smiley faces and gold stars. The images faded fast; they hurt too much. Things were too different to change. He couldn't possibly assure Alfred that he was going to be okay when things fell apart. All he knew how to do was scream at him until he fixed it.

When would he finally realize that he was beating a dead horse?


	4. Chapter 4

Soccer practice ran on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays starting at three-thirty and ending at four-thirty. Other school's teams practiced longer hours, which would explain why Oak Valley's soccer team rarely won any matches. Still, Alfred managed to take pride in what he did. In sports, academics didn't matter much. Arthur always told him that he shouldn't feel special, that anyone can kick a ball . . . but no one can kick a ball like Alfred F. Jones, he decided. The team had few good players, and Alfred was proud to claim his title as one of them. He grinned as he changed into casual clothes after a very encouraging practice. If the team kept up their energy for next Saturday's game, they could snag a victory. He beamed as he met Matthew outside the locker room, prepared to leave.

"I'm so tired now," Alfred sighed, beaming. "I just wanna go home and sleep."

"You go do that. Unfortunately, I have a ton of homework." Alfred silently cursed. He had lost all of his frustrated confusion at his new chemistry homework. The teacher had taught a new concept, and Alfred was completely lost . . . soccer had been a very pleasant distraction, but Matthew's comment reminded him of his doom.

"Ugh . . . I just remembered! I have a ton of chemistry shit I don't understand."

"Chemistry? That's easy. I can help you if you want—"

"Thanks but no thanks." Matthew had actually tried to help Alfred with schoolwork in the past. He was very bright, but he clearly was not meant to teach. His instructions only left Alfred more lost than before. Around him, he tried to make his homework seem like no big deal; though the two were close, Alfred didn't want his own friends to consider him dumb, even behind his back. He had enough of that already.

He remembered Ivan, the huge, intimidating tutor from yesterday. With his help, Alfred missed only two questions on his homework, but he was reluctant to go back to him. Ivan taunted him, made him feel even worse about himself. _He probably thinks I'm nothing but a dumb jock,_ Alfred thought miserably. Still he gave him his phone number and library hours, maybe he had the intention of helping the troubled boy again.

"I really have no choice, do I?" he said to himself, after Matthew waved goodbye. Chest filling with dread, he walked from the gym to the school library, where the crowd of students had started thinning out.

"Ah, Alfred, I knew you'd come back!" Ivan stood up from his table and walked towards Alfred. The words seemed innocent but Alfred found himself offended. He knew he would come back for tutoring, because he was too stupid to fare well without it. Reluctantly, he joined Ivan at his empty table and pulled out his chemistry homework.

"Wow, how do you know this stuff?" Alfred asked, after Ivan clarified everything his teacher failed to teach. Ivan shrugged; his usual smile rested kindly on his face.

"I am in AP Chemistry. I learned this months ago." Another pang of offense struck Alfred. If regular chemistry was close to impossible for him, how did he look in the eyes of Ivan? "You're just starting this? We learned this in a day, along with other material—"

"So I'm not a fucking genius, okay? At least I don't torture myself with AP courses."

"I wish to enter the medical career. This course is of vital importance to me." If Ivan was hurt by what Alfred said, he didn't acknowledge it. Perhaps he should have considered other people's feelings before blurting whatever was on his mind . . .

"Sorry." A new thought hit Alfred. "If you're taking AP courses, why are you wasting your time tutoring a stupid kid like me?"

Ivan looked thoughtful; his violet eyes gazed upwards. "It's true I could spend the time I'm taking with you to study. But, tutoring does have some personal benefits." Alfred gave him a confused look. "Next problem, please."

By the end of his homework Alfred was exhausted, humiliated, and ready to quit. Something about Ivan's calm, happy tone and endless smiles seemed to mock him; he wasn't careful with his words, either. He didn't know if Ivan was even _trying_ to offend him, or if he even knew that Alfred was hurt by his words. Tonight, his curfew was nine again, and he was free to wander through the streets of town and think. Alfred had no idea where to go, but home didn't seem like an option. These days, it seemed that his father _looked_ for reasons to chastise him. He didn't need any; he was already aware that he had failed his dad.

"I'm _failing_, I haven't failed yet." But Alfred knew he was fighting a loosing battle. He could work on his homework with Ivan all he wanted, but no matter how many packets he completed, he would always be slow. His classmates would always be ahead of him, with their hand in the air while Alfred was still reading the question. He knew school was bullshit, that none of this should matter . . . but somehow, the reality of his situation affected him every time.

He turned into an alleyway, unsure of where else to go, and kicked the trash bin he found at the end of it. Frustrated, he released his anger, the anger that's been collected inside of him. Grades shouldn't matter, yet everyone treated them like gold. If one were poor, it was one's own fault he or she was broke. He grunted, kicking a brick wall. Why was the system so rigged out of his favor? Wasn't it the school's job to teach, not to victimize the kids left behind in their studies? It was as if everything worked against Alfred, and everyone blamed him for it. His anger escaped into the darkening sky, cutting through the air around him. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes, and awful, gut-wrenching sounds released them.

He sat on the trash bin, crying for what seemed forever. It ceased, however, and when it did, Alfred felt a numb pain weigh him down, as if he was chained underwater. He had cracked. Years of telling no one, of suffering through Arthur's blame-filled lectures, had finally gotten the best of Alfred. Usually, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He wouldn't go down at all, yet here he sat, utterly defeated.

"Is there even any point of my existence?" he asked to the silent sky. "No wonder my biological parents gave me up . . . they must've saw how I would turn out, and Dad was blind to it, so he adopted me . . ." he wanted to cry some more, but he was out of tears. "Why is everyone I know better than me?" He decided that he did not want to come home tonight. Arthur would only ask too much questions about school, or scold him, or make him feel worse about himself. Anger flared within him. _It's his fault, not mine._ Why did he get to sit back and nag while Alfred strained his mind to understand what he was supposed to? Alfred pushed himself off the bin and stood, willing himself to step away from the alleyway. He rubbed his eyes, trying to conceal the fact that a sixteen-year-old had just been crying.

"God, I look so pathetic," he mumbled, walking briskly down the sidewalk. "Why am I so pathetic?" He was sick of people who didn't know who to blame. "Everyone tells me I'm pathetic, so I believe I am pathetic, when really, I could be a totally awesome person and not even realize it." He continues to walk; the air grows colder with each step. Does he really have to come home tonight? He had nowhere else to go . . .the house caused him too much pain, but running away seemed to be something one had to plan for. Sighing, Alfred walked back to his house, not quite ready for his restless emotions to build up again, but he really didn't have much of a choice.


	5. Chapter 5

"Made your curfew again, Alfred. Nice to know some things penetrate that thick skull of yours." Alfred's blood boiled; he was fed up with being insulted, sick of being treated like he was worthless. He walked down the hallway to the kitchen, ignoring his father as he found some frozen macaroni and cheese. He groaned as he heard steady footsteps behind him. "I made some chicken. It's in the refrigerator."

"Your food tastes like shit," Alfred spat at him, preparing his frozen meal. "Can you leave me alone?"

"Is your homework—"

"Shut up!" Arthur stomped his foot.

"Do _not_ use that tone with me, Alfred!"

"I'm not in the mood for this; just go away!" Arthur seized Alfred's arm, forcing him to make eye contact. "I said—"

"I'm not in the mood to fight with you either, Alfred." His voice was no longer sharp and patronizing, but a bit regretful. Releasing his arm, Arthur walked away, granting Alfred's wish. Utterly confused, he shoved his food into the oven, the memory of his father's hand still on his arm. He took a few steps back as he closed the oven door, unsure of what to think. 

The next two weeks were spent in the library with Ivan after school. Of course, his biting remarks annoyed Alfred, but he managed to complete his schoolwork accurately. Eventually, he decided to ask the taller boy to help him with his math homework, a task Ivan accepted with one of his easy smiles. It still embarrassed him, to expose this kid he's known for two weeks to his failure, but his chemistry grade had risen significantly. Though Arthur took no notice, he would pass the class if he continued his library sessions.

Despite his patronizing ways, Alfred found himself relating to Ivan. Both boys had the same bad habit of saying whatever was on their mind, no matter how rude. Ivan enjoyed the same video games he did, and his parents couldn't cook well, either. Their conversations began to diverge from concepts as they met more and more frequently; Alfred never saw Ivan during school hours, but in the peace of the library, he was there, and they were friends.

"So, why are you always in the library?" he asked one day. "I mean, I know I'm giving you a reason, but you gave me a business card with library hours after we first met, and I've just been confused ever since." If Alfred's eyes did not deceive him, the corner of Ivan's mouth dropped a little. He blinked and the sunny smile returned, though the boy it belonged to seemed a little lost.

"I just am," he brushed it off. "What was your answer for problem fifty?"

"Seriously, why? Do you do homework or something? Read?"

"Your answer's supposed to be positive; oh, you made a division error here—"

"If it's something creepy, like you're totally in love with one of the librarians or something, I swear I won't judge you—"

"That's disgusting, Alfred." He laughed a little, but it was only for a couple of seconds. His eyes bore into Alfred's blue ones as he continued. "It's kind of weird. I don't know how most people would respond to it, but . . . I have problems making friends. I don't know what it is about me, but people who approach me end up leaving." Ivan did creep him out sometimes, yet Alfred still met him every day after school or soccer practice. "So I try tutoring people, and if they like me, I'll try to be friends. But . . . they still end up leaving me, after all I've done to help them." Alfred was not shocked. He wondered if he should feel ashamed because he wasn't, because he could see why this massive, obliviously cruel Russian kid had no friends. What should he say to him? Alfred had friends, most of them from soccer, most of them unable to go two sentences without making a perverted joke. He's never had a friend he wasn't ashamed to admit his insecurities to, but that was different than having no friends at all.

"I'm still around, aren't I? I've been around, and I'll be around." He leaned back in his chair, trying to distract himself from Ivan's gaze. It was a little awkward, though Alfred could not pinpoint why. He was scared that he sounded like he befriended Ivan out of pity, but that was far from the truth. He—both of them—befriended each other because he was desperate. Desperate for different reasons, but still in need.

Ivan stared at the back wall, no longer focused on Alfred. "For how long? How am I supposed to know you won't run away whenever you see me, desperate to avoid eye contact? It's happened to everyone I try to talk to. It'll happen to you." This added fire to Alfred's thoughts. Ivan was making assumptions about him, just like Arthur, just like everybody else. He was trying to prove them wrong. It was hard when nobody listened. "I speak of experience, Alfred—"

"I'm pretty sure I'm experienced with myself. I know who I am, and I am not a jerk." Alfred spoke bitterly; each word sounded accented and firm. "I've told you things I've never told any of my other friends the day we first met. None of them know exactly how bad I am at school. I lead them to believe I'm average out of pride. With you, Ivan . . . I may be ashamed, but I'm not afraid to ask you for help. That means a lot to me." He looked Ivan square in the eye. "I'm not abandoning you any time soon." For a while, Ivan simply looked confused. Once he processed Alfred's words he smiled—but this smile was unusual. His usual smiles were casual, carefree, yet somehow, this one outshined them in genuity; his cheeks appeared rosier and his eyes gleamed. His happiness, to Alfred, felt raw, powerful—he didn't think he'd ever seen a smile quite like this one. He couldn't help but smile back, knowing that he had just improved someone's day, that he had the power to bring someone happiness.

"Um, Alfred? Can I . . . hug you?" the question was rather awkward, but Alfred merely shrugged. Most of the other students had gone home by now, and the ones who remained did not know him.

"Sure," Alfred replied, gathering his supplies and shoving them into his backpack. Ivan walked right over him and gave him a comforting squeeze—his broad chest and his height were enough to cause Alfred to suffocate, but he accepted the gesture. When Ivan released him, he still smiled as broadly as he did before.

"The library is now closed," a particularly annoying librarian announced. Smelling trouble, the two walked away in silence, neither one knowing quite what their friendship was.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hello, Mattie! Gilbert! Isn't today such a lovely day? You know what today is, do you? Well, it's report card day!" Alfred beamed as his two friends stared at him in confusion.

"Why are you so excited about report cards? You don't give a shit about grades," Gilbert wondered. "And why do you expect us to care? We don't give a shit about grades, either."

"Well, some of us don't. I'm still kind of sad that I ended up with a B in English. And everything else is an A, do you know how bad that looks?" Alfred immediately regretted the topic of grades. Through his hard work and total reliance on Ivan, he was looking forward to B's and C's. His cheerful mood disappeared almost instantly—but he smiled anyways. He still didn't want his friends to know that they were way smarter than him. On the soccer field, in the hallways, and at lunch tables they all acted like a group of idiots. Academically, nobody was on the same level.

"Oh no! That's so horrible! _B_! What's wrong with you, Matt? Have you been slacking off? A is for Acceptable! B is for Blasphemy!" Alfred would have found the joke funnier if it didn't mirror his father's academic policies perfectly. "Matthew, you have shamed the family!" Gilbert now spoke in horrible falsetto, which received genuine laughter from Alfred. "What would your father say about this? He'd have a heart attack! You nearly gave me one, two! Thank God it's not a B _minus_! Then I'd disown you!" Alfred and Gilbert stood in hysterics but Matthew simply shrugged.

"Please, my dad wouldn't care. Neither would my mom, and she wouldn't bring him up, either." Their laughter stopped abruptly. Matthew didn't like to speak about his father, who he hadn't seen in four years. His mother forbade it, as their divorce wasn't the greatest. "I think you should be a little more concerned. Your brother is starting to look smarter than you."

"Oh, Ludwig's always been the smarter one. I couldn't care less. As long as I'm on the soccer team and Elizaveta doesn't ditch me for snobby Austrians, I'm cool." His red eyes narrowed. "I'm going to loose her any day now."

"Dude, you guys are taking us on a stream of slowly-turning-depressing conversations," Alfred insisted. "Save it for later. How about we—"

"Hello, Alfred!" the three boys found a very tall, very happy-looking student. Alfred had never seen Ivan during school hours before. What was he doing, talking to him while his friends could see? He thought he'd made it clear that his tutoring was to be kept secret! And with a great friend like Gilbert, nobody would ever treat Alfred like he was capable of success again. Ivan clearly did not notice the glares and whispers of his friends, or Alfred's obvious panicking. He simply waved to the group and pulled the blonde teenager aside.

"I can't be in the library after school today. Would you mind if we moved the session to lunch? The library is too crowded then, but none of the AP chem students will recognize you if we work in Mr. O's room." Alfred nodded, only half-listening. He wanted Ivan to go away, before his friends figured out his secret. "Ah, but you don't know where that is. It is room 111, downstairs on the right. The teacher should be inside. You can also ask him for help, but he's kind of hard to understand." The last thing Alfred wanted to do was spend lunch in some AP teacher's classroom, trying to learn as the school's smartest kids judged him. But they had learned a new concept in chemistry, meaning Alfred better learn it before next class.

"Okay," Alfred shrugged, trying to seem casual. "See you." He hoped his abrupt ending would send Ivan away. The Russian, however, made no move to leave.

"Are these your friends, Alfred?" Alfred smacked his forehead. Socially, Alfred was a genius compared to Ivan, who smiled as Matthew and Gilbert gave him blank stares.

"Fuck off, creep," Gilbert ordered. Matthew was silent, and possibly shaking.

"I'm sorry?" Ivan asked, still smiling. Alfred wanted to walk away. It seemed like the best idea.

"I said fuck off, nobody likes you, and you're just so weird! Snap somebody else's neck; Alfred's neck needs to be on the soccer field." Did Gilbert even know Ivan? If so, how? He couldn't possibly walk away. He had a weakness for verbal hallway fights, especially ones between one of his best friends and the only reason his GPA was above a 2.0.

"I did not break anyone's neck!"

"Raivis Galante would say otherwise . . . oh wait, he switched schools to get away from _you_." How was this Alfred's first time hearing any of this? He usually heard the school gossip, mostly from Gilbert, Elizaveta, and that Polish kid in his English class. He hadn't heard a word about Ivan until now. "And now you plan to victimize Alfred!"

"Alfred came to me!" Alfred could feel his chest sinking. The fact that Gilbert and Ivan didn't bother to lower their voices meant that everyone was sure to hear about Alfred . . . he bit his lip, trying to think of lies that would save his secret.

"You're lying!"

"I do not lie! Alfred has been seeing me in the library for—"

"DON'T YOU DARE TELL ANYONE!" Alfred did not realize he had yelled so loudly. How was he supposed to get out of this? "Ivan was just . . ." To Alfred's immense relief, the bell rang. For once, that ear-piercing ringing meant more than another hour in a class he cared nothing about. For once, the bell provided relief. He was sure that this would be the only time it did.

"Lunch, Alfred. I'll see you later." Ivan walked away, leaving Matthew still frozen in place, Gilbert with unsaid insults, and Alfred terrified of what his friends had to say.

"You're not seriously talking to Ivan, are you?" Gilbert laughed. "Tell me you're not serious." Alfred gritted his teeth.

"It's none of your business. Why do you care if I talk to other people than you?" His defense was weak. He hoped to reach history class earlier than usual.

"Why do I care? I know Elizaveta thinks I'm a jerk, but I care about my friends. Why Ivan? How does he not creep you out? And what the hell do you do with him—" Gilbert's eyes widen and Alfred felt the urge to smack him. "Tell me you're not—"

"What we do is _none_ of your business, and it's totally G-rated!" Alfred hoped this statement eliminated any thoughts of . . . well, what would naturally come to Gilbert's mind.

"Alfred, you don't understand. Ivan manipulates people. Then, when they try to betray them, he . . ." Matthew spoke with a shaky voice as he made a violent gesture with his hands. "But the people who hang around Ivan have problems. He provides them with a false sense of comfort—you don't need that. You don't have problems, and if you did, you can talk to us." Alfred's blood boiled. He didn't have problems, what a ridiculous statement! What the hell did Matthew know? As long as his grades improved and his father stopped badgering him, the benefits of being Ivan's friend were real. "You don't have problems, do you?"

"Who the hell doesn't have problems? I'm a teenage boy with no talents, in a high school full of complete bullshit, and my dad thinks I'm worthless! Don't you have problems, too, Matthew _Bonnefoy_?" Matthew simply frowned.

"My last name is Williams," he corrected. "All I was trying to do was offer help, but clearly, you decide to attack my family's personal situation instead. You can't go after my family because _I_ upset you, and I'm sorry I did so."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you can't accept that I've found a way to please my dad for once. We're going to be late for class if this drags on, and I don't want him to kill me." He stormed off towards his class, red with anger. As he took his seat, he realized that Matthew had never answered his question—maybe insulting his absent father was not the best way to go. But he was furious with his friends. How did both of them have such bad opinions of Ivan, when they had never even talked to him? They said he manipulated and destroyed his friends. Was it because Ivan couldn't tell the difference between honesty and cruelty? _No, _Alfred realized. It wasn't that he couldn't tell the difference, rather that there was no difference. People expect others to sugar coat everything. He wasn't in any danger with Ivan. He would abandon his friends to see him at lunch.

High school really was cruel. It had taken all of Alfred's worth, his pride, his happiness, and poured it down the drain. It drowned him in the impossible and burned him when he admitted defeat. It marked people as dangerous and cruel and deprived them of friends. It claimed it prepared you for life, but it shattered hopes and dreams before you could pursue them.

Mr. O was the scariest person Alfred had ever seen, including his first impression of Ivan. He was just as tall as the Russian, but Alfred was convinced he never smiled. When he entered the room, he glared at him with bright blue eyes and glasses.

"Ah, you found the room easily. I'm relieved." Ivan did not sound as cheerful as usual. His encounter with Gilbert and Matthew wasn't the best. "I sit over here, in the front." _Why does he sit right in front of the scary teacher!? _Mr. O seemed to stare straight into Alfred's soul. Worst of all, all the other students could see him clearly. He longed for the library, the abandoned, after-school library. At least he didn't know any of these smart kids.

"Sorry about my friends. They're dicks." Alfred felt compelled to apologize; the earlier incident was disastrous. At the same time, he was a little angry with Ivan. He almost told his friends about his secret, and now Matthew thought he had problems and Gilbert thought he was insane.

"It's alright, I get that a lot." Ivan sounded sad, but Alfred didn't know what to do. Reputation wasn't something that could be fixed overnight. "And what they said about me . . . I swear I didn't mean to hurt him, he just moved the wrong way . . ."

"Wait . . . that's true?" Ivan did not smile.

"I wish it wasn't. But I have to admit, his face was hilarious." That statement disturbed Alfred. "Well, let's start!"

Alfred's after school schedule was clear of soccer practice or homework sessions, as he finished his chemistry homework with Ivan in the most uncomfortable atmosphere possible. Eager to find his success in the mailbox, he rushed home, grinning madly. Arthur would not murder him for failing. That fact made it hard to remember his troubles of that day, of Matthew and Gilbert's suspicions of him, of the faces of intelligent chemistry students and creepy blue eyes that watched as he stumbled through his homework. The day didn't start out great, but it wasn't over yet. Red-faced and panting, he reached his mailbox and opened it without a second thought. After flipping through a stack of bills, he found a letter addressed _To the Parents/Guardians of Alfred F. Jones. _He already knew what his grades were, because of easy Internet access. This paper seemed to finalize them.

"Alfred, you're home early—"

"Report card. Read it." He handed his father the envelope, suddenly overcome with worry. Was it good enough for him? In only two months, he had improved so much. How could Arthur say anything but—

"Why are you smiling so widely? This is hardly something to celebrate over. You know, most kids your age would be devastated to receive marks like this." He tossed the report card on the table casually, as if all of Alfred's hard work was nothing. His order seemed to work; the smile faded from Alfred's lips. He had failed to please his father. As long as he lived, he could never please his father. Arthur's problem wasn't that Alfred was lazy, or didn't try hard enough. The problem was that his son was useless. "Keep trying, Alfred."

"'Keep trying'? I bring home the best grades I've managed in years, and you tell me 'keep trying'? Clearly, trying isn't going to work if you're not satisfied with where I am now!" Arthur sighed.

"I am satisfied with your progress. I'm relieved you're not failing, and I am excited to see how much you improve—"

"What is the point anymore? I put myself under a shit ton of stress, my head is always close to exploding from forcing myself to understand useless concepts, my friends all think I have emotional problems, and you hate me! I am so done! I should just drop out of high school, if this is the shit I have to deal with for another year!"

"Alfred, you are staying in school, and I do not hate you—"

"Why do I have to yell at you all the fucking time? Can't you give me a break?" Alfred found it hard to control his anger. He didn't even bother to try. "How many times do I have to say it for you to understand that I am not a genius, and by forcing me to become one, you're killing me inside!" Alfred felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. _I will not cry in front of my father. _He blinked, hoping the tears would leave. _God, you are pathetic. Maybe you should cry, you worthless, pathetic boy. Maybe it's something you're good at. _Choking noises formed in his throat, but he clung to his diminishing pride. It's strange how he still had it. What was he to have pride in? Sure, he played soccer well, but nobody cared. Beating his friends at violent video games didn't make him important. _I will not cry. I won't do it. _

"Alfred . . . I just want you to succeed. Not so _I_ can be happy, so you can lead a great life. I can't change the fact that colleges will reject thousands of students with 4.0's before they even look at you, but I can push you to be your best."

"You're pushing me off the edge of a cliff," Alfred insisted, still fighting the tightness in his throat and the dampness in his eyes. "Don't you even know how hard you're pushing? I'm going to fall, Dad!" Oh, what the hell. He didn't have any pride; it was all a façade, to try to make up for everything he wasn't good at. He released the tears in his eyes. He allowed horrible choking sounds to escape his mouth. In a matter of seconds, he was bawling, like the pathetic kid he was.

"_Alfred,_" Arthur whispered, putting his arm around Alfred's waist. "Pull yourself together, Alfred." Tears fell, but they mixed with anger. Alfred felt like a time bomb, exploding with Arthur's every word. He was a blubbering, crying mess; how could he recollect himself? When you're hurt, you cry. When you cry, someone hugs you and speaks words of comfort. When Alfred cried, he was told to stop.

"Get off me," he ordered his father as he shook himself from Arthur's grasp. "I don't even know if you're scolding me or you're pretending to care about how I feel." He turned away from his father, tears still trickling down his cheeks. "I'm going to stay at a friend's house tonight. Not that you'd care if I died in the middle of the street or something—"

"Alfred, you are not going anywhere. Turn around and walk back to me."

"I can't stay here. I won't. I'm serious, Dad, I refuse to be treated like worthless shit in my own house!"

"Alfred, what are you doing? Stop this nonsense, come back to me—Alfred, no, don't you dare take another step out that door—COME BACK INTO MY ARMS, ALFRED—" The blonde teen slammed the door behind him. He began to sprint, in case Arthur bothered to follow him—he yelled curses from the door as Alfred hid in his neighbor's bushes and pulled out his phone and a crumpled slip of paper.

"Hey, it's Alfred . . . yeah, I'm alright . . . no, I'm not, I just can't stay at my house right now, so can I please come over?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Alfred—what happened?" Ivan's house was one-story, like Alfred's, with a busted screen door, a lawn littered with patches of yellowing grass, and a crooked chain-link fence. He hadn't known what to expect; he was simply relieved that it was halfway across town from where he lived. Ivan had greeted him at the door when he knocked. Alfred hoped that he didn't look like he had been crying. He felt so vulnerable, and he hated it, but he didn't have the strength to pretend he was strong. Without replying, he walked into Ivan's house and collapsed on the cream-colored couch he found in the living room.

"What's wrong?" Ivan repeated. Alfred wished he wouldn't ask, but he knew that saying he couldn't stay at his house without providing reason was a cause for concern. _Oh, what the hell,_ Alfred decided as Ivan took his place next to him on the couch. It would be nice to get some of his bottled-up worries off his chest.

"You know how we got report cards in the mail today?" Ivan nodded. "Well, I made the mistake of thinking my dad would like what he saw. I'm so stupid, Ivan—he told me to 'keep trying', and I just . . . lost it, I guess." Memories of the fight flooded him. It made him wonder if his father really did care. It could have been worse. He could have told him that he was useless; he _did_ say he was glad he wasn't failing. Then again, he also implied that he was dumber than his classmates and had no chance of getting into college. "Why does everyone feel the need to tell me what I already know? I know I can't succeed; why shove it down my throat? It makes it worse, you know." He sat up. Ivan inched closer to him, but he couldn't look him in the face. His eyes were probably still red. He knew he was still helpless. "I don't really think you can understand where I'm coming from, being the genius you are, but all it takes to tell somebody what you can do is a series of letters. They define us, Ivan, our grades. All it takes for a crowd to torment me is a letter. I don't talk about my grades much at school . . . because I don't want the world to see me the way my dad does—the way I see myself." Alfred felt Ivan's arm pull him into a hug. Normally, he would have found this very awkward, but he didn't care now—it showed that Ivan actually cared about him. That was all he needed, for someone to care. He had real problems, problems that couldn't be solved by trying harder in school. The problem was that nobody understood. Nobody cared. Nobody was smart enough to figure out that his problem wasn't school. It was self-image, intense pressure, broken pride—but nobody realized this. He allowed Ivan to care about him; he allowed himself to feel relieved, just because he had a friend that took his problems seriously.

"I do understand. For me, people don't use grades to judge me. Instead, they use social skills." Ivan looked around the open room, thinking. "I'm not good at making friends. Everyone thinks I'm some kind of freak, so it doesn't really matter that I'm smart. Grades mean nothing if everyone you meet runs away from you." It struck Alfred that Ivan was just as troubled as he was. Suddenly, he felt horribly guilty; he had seemed so unhappy to see him in the hallway, so ashamed to be his friend. Ivan didn't show that he noticed, but he _had_ to. "Why are you still here, Alfred? You haven't tried to run away yet . . . and you heard what your friends said about me today! It's all true; I didn't mean to break anything in that boy's body, but it happened!" It scared Alfred how maniacal Ivan sounded. Though the world saw something in Ivan that warned it to back off, he had no idea why . . . he stood alone, with no means of support, no friendships . . . he was ashamed to admit that Ivan scared him, when he showed this side of himself. Alfred could see his pain. He hid it so well, behind fake smiles and his imperturbable voice, but he saw it now. One accident, and the world turned its back on him. But Alfred would not turn his back on his friend.

"Let's just agree that society sucks." Alfred spoke quieter than usual because he found it hard to speak. Ivan watched him intently, as if he expected him to stand up and leave the house. "Wouldn't it be nice if there were no grades, no stereotypes, and no expectations? You'd learn what the teachers teach, and you'd practice the concepts in class, and you're only graded on tests, but it's pass or fail. No letters, just a minimum number of questions required to pass . . . and there was no shame in asking for help, and the teachers actually helped you, and nobody really cared how smart you were, or how many A's you have . . . I know it's impossible, but it can't hurt to dream, right?" Alfred leaned back, feeling much better than he had before. It was a nice feeling, to be understood. Ivan seemed to have calmed as well; he followed Alfred and the two of them stared at the plain white walls of the room. He made no move to stop Alfred from resting his feet on the coffee table, something he know would piss Arthur off to no end. Immediately, something awful occurred to him.

"Oh shit," he gasped, sitting up. Ivan followed, full of fresh concern. "My dad—he doesn't know you, and I didn't tell him where I was going, I just stormed out of the house . . . he's going to be furious!" Alfred's stomach lurched at the thought. "I can't go back; he'll murder me! Oh shit, shit, shit . . . if I stay longer, it'll get worse . . ."

"Perhaps you should explain that he is a horrible father," Ivan suggested. Alfred shook his head. He didn't want to start yet another fight with him, but it was inevitable.

"I think I should just go home, listen to his crap, and lock myself in my room," Alfred announced. "Yeah, that'll work . . ."

"If you can keep your mouth shut," Ivan added. "Which I know you can't."

"It's not like _you_ can shut your mouth, either!" Alfred shouted. "And Dad can't fight the urge to point out my flaws, and Gilbert can't shut up either, and wow, why is everyone I know a rude bastard?" He took a moment to catch his breath. "And now I'm lashing out at you, for no reason at all. I guess I'm so used to fighting, I'm taking it out on people who don't deserve it." Ivan patted him on the back.

"You are right. We do share that problem." Ivan began to pace the room. "Maybe you should tape your mouth shut."

"I'm sure my dad would love that," Alfred admitted. "Or I could bite my tongue, or run into my room and lock the door, so I don't have to face him while he shouts at me."

"Tell him you fled to the library to study more."

"I'll just apologize. I'm not dealing with him anymore. I give up." It was the best plan he could think of. He would go back to his house, where he felt alone and stressed, face his father's awful lecture, and fall asleep. He would end this awful day—which was possibly the worst day of his life—and start anew. Maybe he could force his father to understand how he felt. Maybe he would try to improve their relationship. For now, he decided to be brave, before things got worse. Maybe his father was actually concerned about him. He'd only know if he came home.

"I'm gonna go back now," Alfred announced. "Thanks for everything, Ivan—seriously dude, you're the best person in the world." Ivan looked as if he could cry. "By the way, I'm sorry my friends were jerks to you. I—I think I'm going to tell them about our friendship. Matthew, at least, even though he thinks kids with low grades are just lazy. I'll make him see truth." Alfred was met with a crippling hug.

"I can't believe I have a friend," Ivan said. "You're the greatest friend I've ever had, Alfred." For the first time that day, he was great at something. He knew he had to leave, before he burst into tears of happiness.

"You're pretty good too, Ivan. But if you don't let go of me, you might break my back." Ivan backed away immediately, but he still smiled. This one was rare; he was genuinely happy. He made no move to hide just how lonely he was.

"Good luck, Alfred," Ivan wished. "If you ever need to escape, you can always come here. My mother works late, so it'll be all me, all night."

"Thanks, man." Alfred grinned at his friend as he reached the door. "If you're ever down, remind yourself that I would've been in more trouble if I'd never met you." The door closed behind him with a click. Beyond the broken fence, stood trouble, and pain. Surely, he could just stay with Ivan?

Surely, he could find a way to make things right.


	8. Chapter 8

His hand grasped the doorknob firmly, but he couldn't open the door. All he had to do was apologize . . . his father would never forgive him. He would be grounded for life, forced to live at home, with a minimum-wage job because he did so poorly in high school. More than ever, Alfred was convinced that his father was going to raise hell on him. Releasing the doorknob, he turned away from the front of the house. It had sounded so easy when he told himself to go home. Now, he couldn't even open the door, paralyzed with fear.

"I gotta do this," he sighed, turning towards the door again. "He's my dad; can he really kill me?" _He's done so much damage already. _His hand shied away from the doorknob. He didn't care if his neighbors thought he was too incompetent to open his front door. They had to have heard the constant shouting from the white house with the green shutters; maybe they pitied him and would allow him to spend the night. Alfred shook his head almost immediately. Running away from the problem would only deepen it.

Confronting the problem was even harder.

With a deep breath, he swung the door open and stepped inside; eyes closed the entire time. When they opened, nobody scowled at him. No British accent scolded him. He released his bottled-up breath and began to wonder why he had been so nervous in the first place.

Three hours passed by. The time was eight twenty, and there wasn't a single sign of the blonde man. Had he run away, too? Panic arose inside of Alfred. His phone calls had gone unanswered. What if he was looking for him in the streets? _There's no way he cares that much. _He probably went to the grocery store or something, Alfred convinced himself. It didn't explain why he had been missing for three hours, yet he believed.

It was past Alfred's curfew and his father was still absent. He had no idea what to do about the situation. Anxiety consumed him; his head turned towards the door at every sound, he picked up the house phone within the first ring, and he spent his time pacing, unable to focus on the late night TV shows. Now he knew how Arthur felt, every time he missed his curfew. He imagined the poor man sitting alone, wondering if his son was simply dawdling or if he had been robbed, kidnapped, killed . . . Alfred's eyes widened and he shook his head. It was scary. He made a mental promise to never miss a curfew again. Why did he need to be outside at night anyways?

The phone rang; he eagerly picked it up and put the phone to his ear, without checking caller ID.

"Dad, is this you? Please tell me it's you! Come home already—"

"It's not your dad, it's me, Matthew." Alfred's face fell. "Is there something wrong with your dad?"

"He's not here! He's been gone for hours, and he hasn't called, or left any note, and I've never been more terrified in my life!" Was he exaggerating? Surely, it was scarier to show his dad his grades than to have him missing? "I know it's kind of stupid to worry about an adult, but he hasn't come home, and I need him home now! I thought about calling the police station, but their job is to stop burglaries and murders, not find my dad—"

"You're not being clear, Alfred! Please, can you calm down and explain? Why is he gone?"

"I don't know, it probably has something to do with me storming out of the house—"

"_What_!?" Another uneasy task for today. Alfred sighed; if he couldn't find his father, he could at least restore his friendship with Matthew. He needed a friend right now, and he had one on the phone. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then he launched into everything that's been killing him for the past few weeks. He told him about Ivan, about Arthur's less-than-enthusiastic response to all of his hard work . . . it hurt to share, but he needed Matthew to understand.

"I'm not lazy, Matt, just dumb. Why is it that nobody gets it?"

"I still don't see why you didn't think you could tell me this," Matthew insisted, his voice steady compared to Alfred's despair and troubles. "You really don't trust me that much?"

"No, that's not it! I just . . . I thought you'd think I was too dumb for you, and you'd tell everyone at school that I can't pass a math test on my own." On the other end of the line, Matthew paused.

He continued to speak softly. "I don't care how smart you are. Gilbert's not the brightest person alive, and we're still friends."

"Well, now Gilbert won't talk to me, because I'm friends with someone he thinks is creepy," Alfred mentioned.

"Gilbert will get over it. I don't care who your friends are. All I care about is that you're happy. And Gilbert has other things to worry about right now . . ."

"Really? What happened?" He could assume what was wrong with Gilbert, but he needed to hear it for himself. Matthew paused again.

"Eliza broke up with him. She claimed that she felt nothing for him anymore . . . everyone knows she likes Roderich more than him. He asked her out to dinner, so she broke it off with Gilbert." He knew Elizaveta well enough to miss her. She would probably never sit with Alfred, Matthew, and Gilbert again. Additionally, Gilbert would whine about it for a couple of weeks. It had to be hard to loose the only girl who could ever see Gilbert as desirable. His heart ached for his white-haired friend.

"I'll apologize to him tomorrow. I'm sure he doesn't even care about Ivan anymore."

"He definitely doesn't care about Ivan anymore. There's more, too—he caught his brother kissing Feliciano Vargas from soccer—"

"WHAT?" As quick as his worries had appeared, he had become enveloped in gossip and news of relative unimportance. It was nice to talk to Matthew, and was relieved that their squabble has lasted less than a day. They talked through subject after subject, about school, about friends, about games. Alfred felt happy again, having his friendship restored. He could fix his problems; maybe his problems weren't so big after all. He had panicked in the case of Matthew. How could he think his best friend would judge him?

"My math teacher is the weirdest—" Alfred cut off his words mid-sentence at the sound of the front door opening. Immediately, all of the anxiety he had felt before talking to Matthew returned. "I have to go; I think he's home!" Without even waiting for a reply, he hung up the phone and ran to the door.

His father was just removing his coat when Alfred sprang into his arms. He didn't care how much trouble he was in for running away. He just wanted to know that his father was okay. He held him tightly; he was stronger and taller than his dad by far. At first, Arthur hesitated, but he returned the embrace and smiled.

"Where the hell were you, Dad? You have nerve, don't you, leaving me alone to worry about you? I left you so many messages on your cell!"

"Where the hell was I? I went to the police station and spent four hours looking for you! I called the house three times, and you didn't answer!" It was a fight different from anything Alfred had ever known. They released each other, but neither could bear to look away. Other fights involved excessive shouting and blaming. This one showed mutual concern. It was as if, for the first time, there was love present in this family.

"I went to my friend's house. I ranted with him and then I decided to come home, when I felt better." Arthur shook his head.

"You could've talked to _me_ about your problems," he argued. "You think I don't understand . . ."

"But you never have . . . can we not start this? I'm done with this." He couldn't even think of shouting, after all those hours of longing for his dad to walk through the front door. "When I got home, you weren't there, so I got all concerned. Imagine it, _me_ concerned about _you_! Even though you didn't care about me, I couldn't help but care about you—"

Arthur looked absolutely furious. "I am offended that you don't think I care about you." With a gentle hand, he ruffled Alfred's dirty-blonde hair, the way he did when the teen was six years old. "I care about you more than I've ever cared about anything." It was hard to believe. He preferred it to his father's usual snarky commentary. "I'm hard on you because I care. I think you can be greater than you think you are, Alfred—and I _am_ proud of you. I am proud of you every time you score a goal or improve a grade. I am excited to see who you become, and I am proud of who you are. And even if I push a little hard, do keep in mind that it's out of love."

"Didn't know shoving children and throwing expectations on them was 'love'," Alfred scoffed. His father held him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

"I am sorry for how I made you feel. I know it doesn't always show, but my worst fear is loosing you." He paused to examine the boy who he had raised. "Tonight, I thought that fear was going to come true." Alfred couldn't say he hated his father. The way he looked at him now, like Alfred was the greatest person in the world, hit him. This night, he had panicked without him—he had been worried about him. Even if he was too harsh, too brash, too flawed; Arthur was his only family.

"I'm sorry." Again the two hugged. It had been so long since Alfred had known what it felt like to stand in Arthur's arms. He was protected by a barrier of love; the same protection that blocked monsters under the bed or bumps in the middle of the night. Alfred was drowning in affection. He found he preferred the feeling of loving arms around him to red faces and burning insults. He somehow felt those arms understood him; he needed comfort, and they gave it to him. And strangely, those understanding arms were his father's. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to run away."

"Alfred F. Jones, you are not a stupid person. You're impulsive. You don't think things through. You care more for completion than correctness. None of this makes you stupid. And if I have ever implied that you were the opposite of what I'm saying, I'm sorry. It was me who drove you away . . . I'm a terrible father, Alfred!" Those arms grabbed him tighter as Arthur's head fell against Alfred's shoulder blade. It crushed him to see his father so destroyed—was that how he had felt, too, when he had broken down earlier?

"We're not the best family," Alfred began. "But at the end of the day, we're alive and well."

"Perhaps we can become a better one," Arthur proposed.

"Maybe we can."

A fresh start. Tomorrow was another day, a day where shouts didn't exist and tension was absent. A day where his father asked him about his feelings, and Alfred gave him answers. Arthur had said he looked forward to who Alfred could be . . . the son, on the other hand, wanted to see what _they_ could become, together. Too much pain had surrounded them, and with Alfred's bottled-up emotions released, he hoped for ease. _You are not a stupid person._ That alone was all he needed to forgive his father for his misgivings. It was all he needed to know to continue to try his best.

Alfred released Arthur from his arms and smiled at him.

"I love you, Dad."

_ The End_

**(A/N: And that marks the end of the troubles of Alfred and Arthur! Thank you for reading this story all the way through! It makes me happy to know that people read what I write. Questions/Comments/Improvements accepted!)**


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